


Fucking Can Be Fighting, Too, Love

by warmommy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 03:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13157883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmommy/pseuds/warmommy
Summary: Request filled from Tumblr.A wedding, a fight, a rough, possessive fuck. Tormund Giantsbane doesn’t even want to share your thoughts.





	Fucking Can Be Fighting, Too, Love

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!

****

Your footsteps are loud, Tormund is stomping, literally, and you are drunk. We’ll call it tipsy. The negative tension was palpable and growing by the minute, it seemed. This seemed inappropriate, considering the fact that you had been at a feast for the wedding of your sister, for pity’s sake–and hosted by your parents, no less. This was meant to be a joyous occasion, and the food and wine had made it so, all up until Tormund pulled you out of your seat and away from your chat with Jon Snow.

The second the door closed behind you and the lock was in place, Tormund struck his massive hand and knocked a nice vase into a trunk. You sneered at him, tipsiness making your head spin a little bit. “Are you _so_ entirely jealous of some innocent conversation as to immediately start destroying our belongings? You’re throwing a fit, like a child.”

He gave you that look, the wide-eyed one that always seemed to say ‘no shit’. “Yes! I  _am_  entirely that jealous, you’ve known that from the beginning. I told you, Y/N, I told you and you don’t listen. You never listen.”

“Now you’re just being belligerent.” You avoided the broken vase, not wanting it to shred your shoes, but walked to an empty chair and sat down. In your mind, this would make it clear you were not petty, would not be drawn into petty diatribes. He turned to look at you, and it hurt to roll your eyes so hard. “Flirting doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Tormund drew back as if wounded, but he just looked angrier. “It does to me. It means something to me. It means my wife would rather spend her time exchanging sweet words with Jon fuckin’ Snow, of all the buggering men in the world, than with me?”

You laughed, both bitter and cold. “What  _sweet_  words? Here, I will tell you what happened in terms you’ll understand. I had a terrific time with you at the wedding, and the feast was loads of fun, too. As I recall, you drank much more than me, dear husband love, and, when you left the table, I simply looked across it for a new gossip partner. Jon Snow used to be a useless bastard, sent to the Wall, and now he’s King in the North. Why wouldn’t I wish to speak with him, hear those interesting stories? And for another thing, Tormund, if you’re to be jealous of any supposed 'sweet words’ passed between myself and Jon Snow, there’d better damn well be sweet words passing between the two of us, which there hasn’t been.”

“What an artist you are, what a smooth new coat you’ve painted over the ugliness of what you’ve done, yet again.” Tormund poured himself a glass of wine, although he hated it, and downed it quickly. “I should have listened to Sansa. She told me I shouldn’t bother with you.”

“How accurately you drive the knife into my back, yet again!” Your hands began to tremble, for it was a double betrayal, both from Sansa and your very own husband. Angry salt tears poured out of your eyes and there was nothing you could do about it. “Perhaps you should have listened to her. Perhaps I never should have bothered with  _you_ , so that I might’ve bothered with Jon Snow.”

Glass smashed against the roaring fire and you jumped, startled. Tormund got down on his knees in front of you and held both of your elbows on the rests of your chair to keep you from moving away. His face  _appeared_  to be calm, but it was also cherry red, and, even in your state, you felt regretful, for it had gone too far. Tormund leaned closer to you, all of a sudden the mighty Wildling again. “What did you say to me?”

“I apologise,” you manage rigidly. “Now please let go of me and allow me to prepare myself for sleep. I’ll do no more battles with you tonight, Tormund.”

He did not move, only blinked. “Say it.”

With another roll of your eyes, you sighed. “I am sorry. You are my husband, not any other man, so on, so forth. Now please, I’m not in the mood for this. I’m in no mood for games. Release me from your hold.” He knew damn good and well what you had said to him.

In a whirlwind of dizzying movement, Tormund yanked you out of your chair and pushed you toward your bed; you stumbled, but made it, and looked up at him angrily. “Do not try to intimidate me.”

He was on you before you could complete your statement, his rough hands moving up your smooth, bare thighs underneath your dress. It was both exciting and relaxing all at once, this lovely, familiar sensation. You gasped, and he took the chance to kiss you, hard and tender mixed.

When he let your breathe, at last, he pushed your skirts up so that you were naked from the waist below and immediately thereafter began to open his trousers. “I love you, no matter how pissed I am at the moment. You should know that, because I’m about to fuck you so long and so hard that you’ll never even dream that you could have been satisfied by another man. I’m going to set things straight for you.”

You blinked rapidly, bewildered. Tormund was regularly so crass and vulgar enough to earn a discreet smack beneath the table, if the two of you were out in public, but you had never heard him say this before.

“Not Jon Snow,” he kissed you again, settling his heavy body above yours. “Not…I don’t remember any other names, but my blood’s not going to my brain, now, is it?” His fingers swept against his favourite part of your body, and, finding you wet, he laughed, a low and raspy rumble. Apparently, he determined that you were ready enough to take him, because, half a second later, taking him, you indeed were.

It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t meant to. It was only surprising, like your mind couldn’t keep up. When he was seated deep, fully inside you, you sighed and gave a quiet moan. The sensation of being filled by your husband, this very man, Tormund Giantsbane and Tormund Giantsbane alone, gods, it was warm and good and fragmented the part of your brain that selected words from a more erudite collection. At your specific location on the bed, your hands could not reach anything solid, leaving you with him as your only option. Clever bastard.

“I love you, too, you know,” you gasped, winded by the long and fast strokes he was pushing inside you. He wasn’t going to respond, you knew, not until later, but it was worth saying. No longer were your senses dulled by the effects of wine, for you could feel every last spark and pleasurable build up in all the places his skin touched yours.

Opting not to talk, as expected, Tormund quickly unlaced your bodice and pulled it apart so that he could see your chest, watch your breasts move up and down with every thrust. They became harder and harder still, causing your mouth to fall open. You closed your eyes and felt a crease form in between your eyebrows.

You  _tried_  to shift your hips and move your legs as to create a new angle for this ruthless and delicious movement, but Tormund only laughed and trapped you to keep you in place. A soft whine left you, something you would ordinarily find undignified, but, gods be damned, there was no way to care about that, now.

You were writhing against him, both your bodies in constant motion. Your knees brushed against his waist. His hands were moving, never settling on one place too long. Sometimes it was for pleasure, to cup one of your breasts and feel how it grew warmer for him. Others, he gripped you for leverage. All the while, more and more sound erupted in the night air.

There was no possible way that the bride was having a better lay tonight, the poor dear.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!


End file.
